


The Curiosity Game

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Crossover, Daredevil Meets the Avengers, Daredevil Spoilers, Deaf Clint Barton, Friendship, Gen, Humour, dumpster bros, multichap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton knows that boredom is dangerous; it tends to lead to him doing stupid things. Stupid things like making bets with Tony Stark about which one of them can find and befriend the Daredevil of Hell's Kitchen first. </p><p>Yet another "Daredevil Meets the Avengers" fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Gentlemen's Agreement

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [[Trad] The Curiosity Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7841422) by [Skayt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skayt/pseuds/Skayt)



> Yes, I know this idea has been done to death already but I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> Take place after both Daredevil Season 1 and Age of Ultron, so spoilers for both. 
> 
> **Update:** Guys, the amazing, brilliant JadesFire has turned this story into a [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12203238)! I'm so honoured and humbled to have someone make an audio version of my writing, and absolutely over the moon with how well it turned out.

Boredom is dangerous. Clint has always known this, so he does a pretty good job of keeping himself busy. Or rather, the circus and then SHIELD have always done a good job of keeping him busy. The small amounts of downtime that he gets are devoted to either recovering or preparing for the next mission. Clint doesn't have much in the way of an attention span, and whenever he gets bored, he tends to get into trouble.

He has a feeling he's about to do just that now.

Things have been regretfully slow since the whole mess with Ultron. Not that Clint's complaining, so much, because that was a serious shitshow and he isn't keen on jumping back into that madness again so soon. He took a couple of months off after to spend with his family; in between the updates on Daniel's progress, Laura keeps sending him exasperated emails about the disaster Clint had made in their dining room nook before he got called out on a mission, despite his reassurances that he'll finish the renovations soon. It's a familiar song-and-dance with them, one that's been going on since they first moved into the farmhouse and he took it upon himself to refurbish the whole place.

Clint didn't get to stay there near as long as he would've liked before he got called out again. There were clean-ups to handle, too many missions to run for a SHIELD that was only just getting its feet back beneath it. Not to mention they were down a couple of Avengers, with Bruce going awol and Thor off-world, and Tash and the Cap busy training their new recruits.

There were a long string of missions that dragged him all over the world, but at the moment Clint is doing nothing more than cooling his heels at Avengers Tower, waiting for intel that will determine his next mission. He's been here five weeks now, and he's starting to climb the walls; a guy can only spend so much time at the archery range or the gym before it gets old.

Clint is making his way to the communal kitchens - he's run out of coffee on his floor, and he really needs his morning caffeine fix - when he notices that the television is on in the living room. He hesitates, instinctively settling into a defensive position; last he knew he was the only one at the Tower. Clint nudges the door open just enough to peer inside and almost immediately recognises the dark-haired figure perched on the back of the sofa, profile illuminated both by the television and the tablet in his lap.

Usually Tony does a better job of announcing his imminent arrivals - the guy has an honest-to-god schedule of public appearances posted online - so it's a little weird for him to show up unexpectedly, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Clint knows Pepper's in town doing some PR thing, and Tony rarely likes to be left behind if he can avoid it. He handles being bored even worse than Clint does, really.

Satisfied that the Tower isn't under attack, Clint slips back out of the room and into the kitchen. He finds his favourite beans tucked in on the shelf that holds more variety than even the more expensive coffee shops in Manhattan - Tony might not remember to eat for himself, but he does a brilliant job of keeping the kitchen fully stocked at all times - and then settles in to wait for it to brew. He's just polished off some peanut butter toast when it finishes, and he cradles the cup in his hands as he steps out into the hall.

For a moment he deliberates, but the glow of the television is still seeping out around the door to the living room, so he knows Tony hasn't left. It could be a terrible idea, getting involved in whatever Tony's current pet project is, but then again he's also bored out of his mind, and even he can't handle another day spent at the shooting range. Aware that he'll probably regret it, Clint steps into the room and walks over to stand next to the sofa.

"What're you watching?" asks Clint, curiously.

Tony startles so hard he nearly falls off the back of the sofa, making a rather undignified noise in the process. "Christ, Barton, we're getting you a bell," he hisses when he realises who is standing beside him. "You're almost as bad as Ginger Spice."

"Tash'll kill you if she ever hears you call her that," Clint points out and Tony waves a dismissive hand, his attention already back on his work. The film clip on the television looks like something out of an action movie, apart from the headline overlaid across the bottom of the screen: _Vigilante apprehends members of Chinese mob_. "So, what exactly is all this?"

"New player," says Tony, flicking through a series of pictures on his tablet faster than even Clint's sharp eyes can make sense of them. "Hell's Kitchen's got itself a vigilante superhero."

"Oh yeah, I heard something about that," says Clint. He watches the grainy security camera footage on the television for a moment as a figure in red takes down four guys with a string of jujitsu and parkour moves that would make Bruce Lee quit his job in embarrassment. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"They're calling him _Daredevil_ now," says Tony and Clint snorts into his coffee mug. "My sentiments exactly."

Clint watches the looped news clip for a moment, thoughtful. "So, what's it to you?"

"Not big on vigilantes," says Tony, scowling.

"Right, because you've never done things outside of the law," Clint says sarcastically. Tony shoots him a raised eyebrow before going back to his tablet. "Honestly, I think it's about damn time. I've done a bit of work in that area. Hell's Kitchen is a sketchy ass place on its best days. It could use somebody out there to clean up the streets a bit."

Tony flicks his fingers across the tablet, and the images jump up to the television screen. There are newspaper clippings and news segments scattered among still shots of the Devil's masked face. Tony leans his elbows onto his knees, frowning at the screen, and mutters something that Clint can't hear.

"Wanna share that with the rest of the class?" says Clint.

"Right," says Tony, and he almost looks apologetic for a second - or at least the Tony equivalent of apologetic - when he turns to face Clint properly before he repeats, "I'm also not a fan of people who hide their identities." Clint remembers the argument Tony had with Cap about superhero registration, requiring people with powers and advancements to be kept track of. As a spy - even if he's not exactly got secrecy on his side now that he's a (reluctant) public figure - Clint's naturally opposed to the idea, but he's not in the mood to argue that this early in the morning.

"Yeah, well, can't begrudge a guy a little anonymity," Clint says with a shrug. "Not everyone likes the limelight as much as you."

Tony rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, an old tic he hasn't quite gotten rid of even though the arc reactor is no longer there. "Men who hide their identity are hard to hold accountable for their actions," he says lowly, and Clint suddenly wonders if this is coming from some personal experience.

"Besides," says Tony, suddenly enthusiastic and bouncing up to his feet. The abrupt mood swing might've startled Clint if he wasn't used to that sort of behaviour from Tony by now. "If a new guy is playing for our team, I'd like to meet him."

Clint huffs. "In my experience, vigilantes aren't much in the way of team players."

"That's just because he hasn't met me yet," says Tony, shrugging. Clint can't stop the bark of laughter. "What, you think you'd do better?"

"I know his sort; I think I'd have a much better time of convincing this guy than you," Clint argues. "This isn't the kind of thing you can just bullshit your way through on charms and bravado. And that's provided you can even _find_ the guy. You can't just hop a cab down there and expect him to be waiting."

"Course not, I'd never take a _cab_ ," says Tony and he shudders dramatically. "You know how filthy those things are?"

"You know what I mean," says Clint. "This guy doesn't want to be found. He's not going to just show himself when as high-profile a guy as Iron Man shows up in his neighbourhood. This is the sort of thing that has to be handled low-key, and we both know you're not capable of flying under the radar."

Tony's eyebrow arches in a challenge. "You wanna make this interesting, then? Hundred bucks says I can find him first. Another hundred says I convince him to come back to the Tower."

"You're on, Stark," Clint agrees without hesitation, taking Tony's proffered hand and squeezing a bit harder than necessary.

Tony smirks and picks up his tablet again. "May the best man win."

It's only as he's in the lifts on the way back to his floor, hands curled around his cup of room-temperature coffee, that Clint realises just what he's gotten himself into. He's about to go out and hunt down an incredibly competent and violent vigilante of questionable morals and alliances and try to convince him to play with the Avengers. It is, without a doubt, one of the stupider things he's done on a very long list of stupid things.

 _Oh well_ , he thinks as he logs into the SHIELD network from his laptop, _at least I'm not bored anymore._


	2. First Impressions (and Right Hooks) are a Bitch

Three nights later, as a roundhouse kick to the chest sends him back against the wall so hard he sees stars, Clint decides that yes, going after the Daredevil is a _horrendously_ stupid idea.

The truth is, he'd gotten cocky. His preliminary online search - supplemented just slightly by what little information SHIELD had bothered to gather on the guy - had given him a good basis to build from: Daredevil always worked alone, always worked at night, and never left the boundaries of Hell's Kitchen. Weapons of preference were his fists and, occasionally, some billy clubs. Online comment boards were filled with firsthand accounts of people who had been saved by him, always describing him as fast, quiet, and, commonly, "a ninja." There was a blog post by an employee from the local hospital who rallied against him, citing the incredibly poor condition that anyone who went up against him arrived in.

It was all very standard fare, honestly. Clint had seen as much posted about himself and the other Avengers, although theirs was on a much grander scale, perhaps. Entire countries instead of just a few city blocks.

Tony's plan for finding the Daredevil seemed to involve an intricate web of technological surveillance; hacking into every CCTV camera in Hell's Kitchen and using it to track the vigilante's movements, while simultaneously running some kind of facial recognition software over the half of the face visible under his mask. Clint, on the other hand, had always preferred the old-fashioned, tried-and-true methods. So at sunset, he grabbed his bow and headed out to Hell's Kitchen, where he set up shop on a tall building near the city centre and waited for something to happen.

The first two nights he hadn't had much luck. Anytime he thought he'd spotted something, he'd head over only to find no trace of the Daredevil apart from a heap of unconscious bodies in alleyways. The rest of the night would be spent trying to play catch-up, only to inevitably lose the trail somewhere along the way. He slumped back to the Tower each morning, tired, gritty, and just irritable enough to make Tony beam triumphantly. (The second morning, a hastily thrown projectile had been the death of Tony's coffee in revenge for that smirk. It only made Tony worse, in retrospect.)

Night three went better. Not long after he'd arrived, he'd spotted commotion from his perch, and he raced across rooftops. He got to the scene just split seconds after the Daredevil had left and a flash of maroon darting between bits of scaffolding had been all he needed to give chase. Clint's heart was hammering in his chest as he took off, the buzz of adrenaline making him giddy. This was it. He'd catch up before the guy even realised he was being followed. He'd got an honest-to-God glimpse, and there was no way he was losing him now.  Clint was far too good a spy for that.

Being unexpectedly clocked in the jaw by an amateur vigilante while turning a corner makes Clint seriously wonder if he's that great a spy after all.

A hand closes around his throat, just hard enough to narrow his breathing - not that he has much breath to begin with after that surprise boot to the chest - and keep him pinned to the wall. "Who do you work for?" the Daredevil growls, his voice low and rough like a chain-smoker gargling gravel. Jesus, that voice makes Clint's larynx twinge with sympathy. "Who sent you?"

"No one sent me," says Clint, holding his hands out to his sides in a placating gesture. "I'm jus-"

Daredevil suddenly snarls, and his club strikes the side of Clint's head, right across his left ear. "Who are you talking to?" he barks. Clint's head is spinning from the blow, and there's a faint ringing in his ear. When he doesn't answer, Daredevil's free hand ghosts over Clint's ear like he's expecting to pull something away. He frowns when he finds nothing. "I can hear your communicator."

"It's not a comm," says Clint. He has no idea how the hell the guy knows about it in the first place, but Clint folds his ear forward to reveal the thin scar behind it. "It's a cochlear implant. Next gen, entirely internal, and I really fucking hope you didn't break it because that surgery was bad enough the first time."

Daredevil's grip on his throat loosens ever so slightly. "Cochlear im-" He stops, frowns, and then says, in a voice much more natural than before, "You're deaf?"

"Not so long as you didn't break the implant," Clint grumbles in annoyance, rubbing his throbbing ear. "But yeah, technically. Got a problem with it?"

To his surprise, Daredevil's lips quirk up ever so slightly. "Not at all. I do, however, have a problem with the fact that you've been tailing me for a couple days. So I ask again, who sent you and what do you want?"

"And I'll tell you again, no one sent me," Clint repeats. "This is purely a social call, just wanted to introduce myself. Clint Barton, nice to meet you."

"I know that name," says Daredevil. "You're an Avenger. Birdman, or something..."

"Hawkeye," Clint corrects automatically. Daredevil's smirk tells him he knew the right name and did it purely to rankle Clint. Two can play at that game. "So, _Evel Knievel_ , now that introductions are made, you mind letting go of my oesophagus?"

Daredevil considers him. "You're not here to attack me?"

"Nope, purely a friendly visit," says Clint. The other man cocks his head slightly, like the way Tash does when she's listening intently to something in the distance, and then he releases Clint. By the time he catches his breath, Daredevil has taken several hasty steps back, putting him safely out of reach. The guy's smart and good at sizing up an opponent then, definitely not new to fighting. "Thanks," says Clint, tentatively feeling his neck and pleased to discover the swelling isn't too terrible. If he's lucky, it won't bruise. Much.

"Nice to meet you, Barton. Now get out of my city." And then Daredevil turns and is up the fire escape of the next building over before Clint can summon the breath to try and stop him.

Clint leans back against the wall and watches the blur of dark red and black disappear behind the vents and onto the next building until he fades so far into the shadows that even Clint's eyes can't pick him out. It's still relatively early in the night, and if he really wanted to he could probably track down Daredevil again and try to get more out of him, but he doesn't want to push his luck that much. Besides, the faint ringing in his throbbing ear hasn't quite gone away, and it's making the headache he got from taking a club to the face so much worse. So Clint heads down to the road and, after a few minutes, he manages to flag down a taxi to take him back to Midtown.

The whole meeting might not have gone as well as he'd have liked, but he did still manage to find Daredevil before Tony which means the engineer owes him. When Clint steps into the lift from the lobby, he pitches his voice upward and says, "Hey JARV- Er, I mean, FRIDAY. Sorry, still getting used to that."

"No offence taken, Mr Barton," the robotic female voice replies neutrally from the speaker in the ceiling panel. "What can I do to assist you?"

"Tony still up?" asks Clint.

"He is; Sir is currently working in the lab," says FRIDAY. "Would you like to be taken to him?"

"Yes," says Clint, and as an afterthought, he adds, "Please." He leans sideways against the smooth metal wall and massages his aching jaw as the lift whirs into action. He'll give the Daredevil this; he doesn't hold his punches. Not quite so painful as being hit by Tash, but then she's all sharp jabs like a knife whereas the vigilante is brute force and blunt. He briefly entertains the idea of seeing Daredevil go up against Tash because that would be a hell of a fight, but he's pulled back to reality when the lift doors open.

The labs are brightly lit, pure white glowing across the polished metal surfaces and holographic screens that fill the room. Classic rock is pounding from the built-in stereo system, and it isn't difficult to find Tony in the middle of it all, one-handedly adjusting wires inside an Iron Man helmet while the other flicks through the air like a conductor at a symphony, so the pages of the hologram rotate and superimpose over each other. It's no great surprise to see him awake at this hour; Tony has one of the least predictable sleep patterns Clint's ever seen, and he works in a career where going days without rest is a requirement.

"FRIDAY, volume?" Clint raises his voice to be heard over the music, and the AI obediently lowers the Metallica to an acceptable level.

"What the-?" Tony glances around in confusion and then spots Clint. "Hijacking my music isn't cool," he says in greeting. Clint sees his eyes flick over the blossoming shades of violet on his neck and jaw. "Kinky, Barton, I didn't know you were into that."

"Found the Daredevil," says Clint, levering up off the doorframe and weaving between tables of tech he couldn't dream of understanding. "He wasn't happy about it."

Tony regards him sceptically. "You expect me to believe you just stumbled across him in the dark?" he asks with a laugh. "Doubtful."

"But it happened. Which means you owe me a hundred bucks." Clint holds out a hand expectantly and can't keep the smugness out of his expression.

"Pics or it didn't happen," says Tony, shrugging, and goes back to his helmet.

Clint huffs. "What, you expected me to get the guy to take a selfie with me? He was more interested in kicking my ass. And I'd think that these," he gestures at the collar of bruising, "were proof enough."

"Oh please, I know of six places within a ten block radius where you can get that done by a professional who looks significantly better in spandex than that vigilante," says Tony.

"Five, sir," FRIDAY interjects. "Angel's Dungeon was foreclosed upon last winter."

"Really? That's a shame. Top notch establishment, that was." Tony brandishes a soldering iron in Clint's direction. "My point remains. Just like when I try to convince Pep that I am the one who did the dishes, pics or it didn't happen."

"That wasn't part of the agreement and you know it," Clint argues. "Quit being a baby; it's not like you can't afford it." When Tony pretends to ignore him, Clint decides to bring out the big guns. "Want me to tell Pepper you're making bets on who can get beat up by a rogue vigilante?"

"Seriously not cool, man," says Tony. He pulls out his wallet with a deeply put-upon sigh and draws out a hundred dollar bill. (Just as Clint suspected, there are at least a dozen more of them folded in there. It takes a stupidly cocky bastard to carry around over a grand in cash in New York City like it's nothing, and if Tony is anything, it's stupidly cocky.) He presses it into Clint's waiting palm without looking at him.

Clint grins as he tucks the bill into his pocket. "Pleasure doing business with you, Stark."

"Don't spend that too quick," says Tony. "You still didn't convince him to come to the Tower. I'll be getting that hundred back in no time."

"Yeah, sure," says Clint. "Because he seemed up to the idea of coming out to play. You did see what he did to my face, right?"

Tony casts half a glance at him. "I thought it always looked like that."

"Asshole."

"Can't believe you got your ass kicked by an amateur," Tony mutters under his breath with a laugh. Clint resolves at that moment to make sure that Tony never finds out that Daredevil also got the jump on him. "I hope it hurts."

"I've had worse," says Clint, shrugging. He rubs his aching ear again and hesitates before pressing on. As much as he hates asking Tony's help, he also knows if he doesn't get it looked at it could end up a lot worse in the long run. "Speaking of, any chance I can get you to run a diagnostic on my earpiece before I turn in? It took a pretty good hit and it's been ringing a bit ever since. It's not as bad as it was so I think it's getting better, but, you know-"

"Better safe than stone deaf," Tony finishes for him. He gestures at a mostly empty table, and Clint hops up to sit on the edge while Tony rummages through a bunch of tech. He finds a little rectangular thing that Clint is pretty sure he saw on an episode of Star Trek once and then flicks it on. It hums quietly as Tony hovers it over Clint's throbbing ear. When he pulls back, a press of a button makes a 3D hologram of the cochlear implant pop up between them.

"Knowing that thing is inside my head never gets less creepy," Clint says, leaning in to examine the intricate series of tubes and wires.

Tony snorts and casts a short glance at a shelf, where the Mark 1 Arc Reactor is sitting in a glass case. "Tell me about it," he agrees. His eyes are narrowed as he rotates the hologram, using his fingers to pick it apart and examine the individual pieces, before he clicks a button and the image disappears. "You're all good. Everything's still in one piece. Looks like the ringing's coming from the parts of your ear that are all you, it'll go away."

"Thanks," Clint says and drops down to the floor again. "In that case, I'm gonna go take a few ibuprofen and collapse."

"Have fun with that," says Tony. He tosses the scanner onto another table and then turns back to his helmet. "Oh and Barton?" he adds, and Clint stops in the doorway of the lab. "Another hundred for pic proof?"

Clint still thinks it's highly unlikely that it'll happen but, as a vague idea begins to form in his head, he grins and nods. "Sure, you're on."


	3. Worth a Thousand Words

Matt Murdock is suddenly acutely grateful for the fact that no one can see him at the moment, because the long-suffering sigh that he can't hold back would be considered really out of character for the Daredevil. He's only a block away from the obvious sounds of a fight - and one with horrible odds, really, something like seven-to-one as best he can tell from here - when he recognises the voice of the lone guy, who is loudly taunting his attackers. This guy is clearly an idiot. An idiot who's holding his own against seven members of the Irish mob, but still an idiot.

For a moment, Matt is sorely tempted to leave and let the guy handle it himself. Clearly he's not having too rough of a time of things, and it's not like he doesn't have plenty of back-ups he could call on if he really needed it. (And yeah, so maybe Matt is still annoyed that the guy's been tailing him for the last few nights and apparently hasn't given up even though he'd found him.) Unfortunately, his curiosity gets the best of him in the end, and Matt jumps over to perch on the roof of the building next to the alley where the fight's taking place, listening intently as he watches the blurs of fire dance and twist around each other on the pavement below him.

The guy - Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye, he remembers from the night before - is purely on the defensive. He takes a couple of light hits, just enough to keep the Irishmen's interest, but it's obvious even to Matt that he is only playing with them. If he wanted to, he could probably take them all out in a matter of minutes with minimal injury to himself. But he's not, he's dragging it out and not bothering to keep the noise down either. So what's he-?

It's a trap. No, not a trap, because Barton's here alone, so there's no one waiting to ambush, (he double checks quickly and no, no other heartbeats in the area), but bait. He's trying to draw out the Daredevil and damn it all if Matt didn't walk right into it.

Now that he knows what's going on, Matt's more tempted than ever to walk away. There are people out there, innocent and defenceless people, who actually need his help. He straightens up, and he can tell the moment Barton spots him - which, wow, the guy's eyesight is brilliant to pick him out from this far away in the dark - by the abrupt hitch in his breathing. That brief moment of distraction earns Barton a kick to the stomach that knocks the air from his lungs.

"No, really, it's fine," Barton pitches his voice louder so he can be heard over the fight. The mobsters falter slightly in confusion and Matt can sense the twist of muscles as they look around for whoever Barton's addressing "You just sit there and watch, I can handle it."

Matt rolls his eyes but uses the moment of distraction to jump down and crack one Paddy over the head with his club. A millisecond later, Barton - also not afraid of using diversions to his advantage - dispatches another with a kick to the back of the knees and an elbow into the skull. The rhythm of the fight feels natural and right as Matt settles in, and he flows between and around the mobsters without conscious thought. On the other side of the alley, he hears Barton in a fire escape - is that asshole really going to bolt after getting him into this? But no, Barton kneels, and the sharp twang of tensed string sends a projectile into one man's back. The crackle of electricity lingers in the air around the dropped man even as they both turn to other targets.

It hardly takes more than a minute before the final Irishman drops from a sharp blow to the face. Matt pauses to catch his breath, feels the air currents vibrate as something slices through them, and smirks. He flips sideways, his body parallel with the ground for a moment, and snatches the projectile out of the air before landing.

"Really?" he drawls in Barton's direction, holding up the - arrow? Does he use a bow and arrow? How archaic. "I save you, and you try to shoot me?"

Barton huffs as he jumps down from the fire escape. "Hardly. If I'd been trying to shoot you, I'd have shot you."

"You superhero types are so modest," says Matt, fighting another pointless eyeroll.

"No, just aware of my skills," says Barton. "You want modest, you should meet the people I hang out with." Matt, who has heard the interviews on television, can't really argue that. Not when his team includes people like Tony ' _I Am Iron Man_ ' Stark. "They weren't kidding; you really are something like a ninja. The last person who caught one of my arrows was a god - or alien that thinks he's God, anyway."

Matt can hear the way Barton's heart picks up at the mention and decides not to press it. Instead, he says, "I thought I told you to get out of Hell's Kitchen."

"I did," Barton answers and Matt can hear his grin. "Was gone all day. You never told me I couldn't come back though, so really, this is on you."

This time Matt can't stop the exasperated eyeroll. "I'll be sure to correct that oversight. What do you want, Barton?"

"This time? Just to see you in action. I'd heard it was quite a show. You're like Jackie Chan."

"I have no idea who that is," Matt admits, frowning.

Barton snorts. "You need to get out more," he says. "I haven't even been in civilised countries for most of the last twenty years, and even I've seen his movies. Or at least the older ones, back when he still had some dignity."

Ah, that explains why Matt doesn't know him. "I don't watch movies," he says. "Although I could've guessed you'd prefer old-fashioned things. A bow and arrow?"

"A more elegant weapon from a more civilised age," Barton says, and Matt huffs a laugh because he has at least seen _that_ movie. "Seriously though, bows are significantly underappreciated. It's so much more organic than a gun, you know? You feel it in your whole body; the stretch and pull of muscles, syncing it with your breathing. Guns are tools. Bows are part of you."

"That's poetic," Matt remarks in amusement. Not that he really disagrees, because he hates guns personally, but it's just entertaining hearing him talk about it like that.

"Don't believe me? You're more than welcome to try," says Barton and the air stirs as he holds out the bow. "Although I don't know if you can pull back this one, it takes a bit of practice to build up to a bow like this."

For one long moment, Matt is sorely tempted. There's something of a challenge in Barton's offer, and he wants to rise to it. He thinks of Stick, who is perfectly capable with a bow and that's even without the advantage of Matt's heightened senses. (Or at least he thinks so, anyway. He never could get a straight answer from the guy on that particular topic. Or any topic.) He could probably do a decent enough job, and it'd wipe that stupid grin off Barton's face.

But in the end, Matt can't risk it. The last thing he wants is for the Avengers finding out about him - with their team of scientists who aren't afraid of pushing boundaries and God, what would they do if they found out about his abilities? His mind is momentarily filled with images of stark, sterile labs full of tables with straps and tools with unknown uses, and he feels his jaw tighten instinctively.

"No thanks," he says dismissively. "I prefer to keep my fighting up close."

"Suit yourself," Barton says as he swings the bow onto his back and snatches back the arrow he shot at Matt. "To each his own. I like it long-distance, but that's a vision thing. My eyesight's sharper than most people's. They say it's because I'm deaf, although I've been this way so long I don't remember what it was like before."

Matt hums, fighting back a knowing smile. "Yeah, I've heard that happens." Barton makes like he's going to say more but Matt holds up a hand to stop him. A scream in the distance has caught his attention, and now that he focuses, he can hear jeering and the thrum of overexcited heartbeats.

"I've got to go," Matt says and jumps off a closed dumpster into a fire escape. He's so focused on listening to the sounds of the assault that it takes him a block and a half to realise that Barton is following him again. He wants to be annoyed but all he can care about at the moment is the terrified voice of the woman and the leering calls of her attackers.

There are four men, one of them restraining the panicking woman while the others take turns pawing at her suggestively. One of them is toying with a switchblade, the _snickt_ loud in Matt's ears as the guy flicks it open and closed over and over, and Matt goes for him first. A sharp twist of a wrist sends the blade clattering to the ground, and the man yells as the minuscule bones in the joint scrape against each other until they crack. When the man drops to his knees, Matt elbows him in the face hard enough for his zygomatic bone to fracture, and the man crumples.

One of the men has already bailed, scared off at the first sign of trouble. Matt dispatches the second guy with a series of punches - stomach, throat, temple in quick succession. He can feel the stir of air as the final man aims a punch for the sensitive spot on the back of Matt's neck, but by the time he's turned out of the way of the blow, the guy is already on the ground. Matt tips his head down to where the man is curled, clutching his knee where something long and narrow is protruding from the side. He can hear the scrape of feet as Barton adjusts his position on the lip of the building above him.

Ignoring the archer for the time being, Matt knocks out the fallen guy and turns to where the terrified woman is huddling against the wall. "You're safe now," he says, voice pitched low, but he can't bring himself to go full Daredevil on her. Not when he can tell she's barely out of her teens and her heart is hammering so close to a panic attack. "There's a church three blocks west that's still open, the priest will help you call the police. Stay in the light."

The woman nods, gasping for breath, but she doesn't move. Then she breathes out a quiet, "Thank you," before taking off down the road. Matt turns and climbs back to the roof, unsurprised to find Barton still waiting for him. He follows the girl from the rooftops, making sure that she makes it to the church safely, and then finally faces Barton.

"You know, I really wish you'd stop following me everywhere," he says pointedly.

"Yeah, speaking of that," says Barton, completely unconcerned by his obvious frustration, "how'd you know I was tailing you the last few nights? No one ever knows I'm tailing them. At least mostly no one. Spies sometimes, but that's rare. You're not a spy, are you? Because if so you're like the least subtle spy of all time."

Matt shrugs, ignoring the second question since he's fairly sure it was rhetorical. "Maybe you're just not as good as you think you are."

"Nice try, kid," says Barton, unconvinced, "but I've been a spy since before you hit puberty."

"You're not that much older than me," Matt points out. He's not brilliant at judging ages without the visual cues on people's faces, but there's no way Barton is more than ten years older than him at most.

Barton remains unphased. "My point stands."

It takes a second for the point of that statement to sink in, and then Matt can't manage anything more eloquent than, "Oh."

"Exactly," Barton says. "So what is it? Psychic? Telepathy?"

Matt smirks. "Sure, something like that."

Barton snorts. "What is it with all you upgraded people?" he says, shaking his head. "Here I thought I'd found another guy who was just a regular person like me."

"You're a little bit upgraded yourself, don't you think?" Matt says. "Eyesight like that. Just because yours didn't come from a super serum or some tech, doesn't make it less of an advantage."

"I dunno, I wouldn't mind being able to heal as fast as Cap and Tash do," says Barton, huffing out a laugh. "You got that?"

"No, I still heal the old-fashioned way," says Matt and he can't stop the small smile that steals across his face.

"Sucks, right?" Barton says. "Hey, in case you ever get hurt and need patching up, you're welcome around the Tower. I figure you're probably not keen on hospitals with the whole anonymity thing, and we won't make you take your mask off. Honest, we get what it's like. So just keep it in mind, you know, in case you need it. Number's in your phone." Matt's so startled he barely gets his hands up in time to catch the burner phone Barton tosses at his chest, and a quick check reveals it's his.

"How'd you get my-"

Barton laughs. "Told you I was good. Anyway, it's getting late, so I'll see you around."

"I'd rather you don't," Matt calls after Barton's retreating back and the only response he gets is another laugh from the archer. Shaking his head, torn between annoyance and grudging amusement, Matt breathes deeply. Barton was right; it's getting late. The air has cooled and thinned the way it does before dawn, so he guesses it's nearly five. Matt tucks his burner phone back into its pocket and takes off across the roof. It's time to call it a night.

* * *

It's nearly midday when Clint drags himself out of bed and up to the common rooms. When he slips into the kitchens he finds Tony and Pepper having a conversation at the counter island. Or rather, Pepper is talking while she flicks through things on her tablet and Tony is pretending to listen while he picks at her lunch whenever she's not looking.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," Tony greets. "Or should I say afternoon?"

"Still before noon," says Clint, gesturing quickly at the clock that currently reads 11:52.

"Good morning, Clint," Pepper says, and Clint spares her a warm smile as he pours a cup of coffee. "Don't let him give you a hard time; he'd still be asleep if he'd come to bed at all last night."

Tony waves a dismissive hand. "Lasers don't build themselves. I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Which will happen a lot sooner if you don't start sleeping once in a while," Pepper responds, and the conversation has the well-worn, scripted air of one they've had a dozen times before. Judging by the bored look on Tony's face, perhaps more than a dozen times. Pepper's gaze flicks over the bruises on Clint's neck and face - Tony uses her distraction to steal an orange wedge off her plate - and she frowns. "Are you okay?"

"He paid a visit to Margie's," Tony says with a smirk.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Mission," he corrects. Not technically a lie, it was just more a personal mission than a SHIELD-sanctioned one. "I'm fine, already been cleared. It looks a lot worse than it is."

"I'm glad to hear that," says Pepper. "Well I've got to go, I've got a meeting with the energy council. I don't suppose you're coming," she directs at Tony.

"Why? You're doing such a good job, I'd hate to get in the way," he answers.

Pepper sighs, but it seems more out of habit than genuine exasperation. "Try not to get into too much trouble while I'm gone," she says. Clint looks away respectfully as they exchange their goodbyes, busying himself with his coffee, and only looks up again when Pepper tosses out a "Bye Clint," on her way out the door.

"Rough night?" Tony asks when Clint adds another scoop of sugar to his coffee.

Clint hums noncommittally into the mug. "Got a present for you though," he adds with a grin. Tony makes a curious noise, so Clint gestures for him to follow and they move into the living room. "FRIDAY, can you pull up the CCTV footage from the corner of 49th and 7th, from about three-thirty this morning?"

"Right away, sir," the AI responds, and the dark, grainy image suddenly fills the television screen. There's no audio, but it's easy enough to make sense of the scene; Clint cornered against a wall as a large group of men try to pick a fight with him.

"Ooh, I get to watch you get your ass kicked?" asks Tony, amused. "Although to be fair, this isn't something new. I can just pull up any of the footage from you sparring with Tash."

"Just wait," Clint says, and then, "FRIDAY, fast forward a bit... There! Play."

The video returns to normal speed just as a new figure enters the frame. Clint settles back with a smug smirk as Tony's eyes widen, and he orders the AI to zoom in on the new figure. "Jesus, is that-?"

"I know you said picture proof, but a video still counts, right?" asks Clint. The video plays through to the end of the fight, where Clint and the Daredevil are standing in the open lot and chatting with an obvious sense of familiarity. The moment both figures disappear off the screen, Tony walks out of the room, shoving a hundred dollar bill into Clint's hand without a word.


	4. Ironclad

The metal bites into his back as Matt tucks himself beneath the mass of vents on the rooftop, his ears straining to pinpoint the sound of his pursuer. He had been half-expecting Barton to show up again, and while he wasn't exactly thrilled about that, he really would've preferred it to this new development. There is something fundamentally _off_ about this follower - more metal than flesh, a heartbeat faint to the point of being nearly undetectable, and its chest glows with a pulsing energy unlike anything that Matt has ever encountered in his life. It messes with his senses and makes it hard to get any clear sort of reading, hence why he's decided it is safer to avoid the figure than face him until he can be sure of the situation.

Gravel crunches as the figure lands on the other side of the rooftop, the whine of propulsion fading down into nothing. "I can see you, you know." The voice is harsh and metallic, grating on Matt's ears, and yet still manages a staggering level of condescension. "I mean, seriously, have you _never_ played hide-and-seek before?"

Matt clenches his jaw. Well, there's nothing for it now. He can handle common thugs, but he isn't sure how well he'll hold up against this metal monstrosity. Still, it isn't like he's left with a lot of options at the moment. Pulling out his billy clubs, Matt leaps out from his hiding spot and lands in a defensive crouch. He throws one club toward the glow from its centre; the stick is blasted away with a quick, high-pitched shriek of energy that makes Matt cringe back from the noise.

"Easy there, Hornhead," the machine-man says, gears grinding in a movement Matt can't see - there is very little heat to register coming off the man and the light from its centre is still dazzling his senses with its low, steady pulse. "I'm flattered but I'm not here to tango."

"What do you want?" Matt growls, putting on his most dangerous Daredevil voice.

There's a hiss of pressurised air escaping and a scrape of smooth metal over metal. "Just wanted to chat," the man says and suddenly his voice is entirely human.

The abrupt change unsettles Matt and he blames that for the fact that it takes him several seconds to recognise the voice. Suddenly, everything clicks into place and he straightens up from his crouch, putting on an exasperated expression. "Tony Stark. Why are you Avengers so interested in me all of a sudden?"

"Well I don't know about the others, but I'm just a curious sort," says Tony. "Heard there was a new player in town and wanted to see for myself."

"Heard from Barton?" Matt asks, already planning to have a word with the archer about gossiping the next time he inevitably shows up.

"Hmm? Oh, no, I knew about you first," says Stark. "I'm the one who told him about you, really. Stupid on my part, I really didn't expect him to find you first."

Matt snorts. "Yeah, thanks for that. I can't get him to leave me alone."

"Yeah, he can be a little clingy when he finds someone he likes. Bit like a puppy that way," says Stark with a whine of gears that Matt hopes is a shrug. He can't stop himself from tensing anyway, and apparently Stark sees. "Hey, if I power-down you're not going to attack me, right? Because this suit makes me sweat and, I mean, _ew_. Gross." Matt moves his hand in a noncommittal gesture, and Stark seems to take that as agreement. There's a complex series of grinding whirs, plates of metal shifting and sliding across each other in a labyrinthine pattern Matt can't track purely because there are so many things moving at once, and then a lighter crunch of rubber on gravel as Stark steps out onto the roof.

His heartbeat is suddenly present and unfiltered, a steady beat just slightly accelerated by excitement, and now that he's out of the suit Matt can sense his presence a hundred times better. It makes him feel more at ease and he feels some of the anxiety leeching out of his muscles. Stark walks over and perches on the concrete lip of a skylight, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"So, is that a problem you have?" he asks like there was no interruption. Matt cocks his head in confusion, so Stark clarifies, "The suit and sweating."

"A little," Matt agrees. "Under Armour helps." Stark pats the concrete next to him but Matt stays where he is, planting his feet and crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. "You know I do have things to do besides entertain you superheroes' curiosity," he adds.

Stark huffs a laugh. "Like you'd actually still be standing here if there was something going on," he says. "Besides, you're a little curious too and you know it."

Matt determinedly tamps down on the part of him that _is_ curious, furious at it for existing in the first place. He blames it on Foggy, who is a more than a little prone to obsessing over superheroes. Clearly his best friend is rubbing off on him. "What do you want, Stark?"

"Ideally, I'd like you to agree to come back to the Tower so I can rub it in Barton's face that I convinced you when he didn't," says Stark and Matt is momentarily sidelined by the pure honesty. He hadn't expected a sincere answer, not after years of hearing the guy give sideways answers and dismissals in his interviews, skirting around subjects he didn't want to talk about with a sort of grace and charisma that had made most of the students in his law classes green with envy. "Unfortunately Barton's out of the country at the moment so the satisfaction wouldn't really be there," Stark continues like he hasn't just shaken Matt's world view slightly. "Although you're still more than welcome to swing by."

"No thanks," Matt says without hesitation.

Stark tips his head and Matt can feel the weight of his gaze. "Really? Because you have no idea the lengths most people will go to get a glimpse inside Avengers Tower."

"I'm not 'most people,'" says Matt, shrugging.

"Yeah, I suppose most people don't spend their nights picking fights with every B-list criminal they can find," says Stark with a sort of passive amusement. "And to think people tell me _my_ hobbies are self-destructive." Matt doesn't have anything to say to that so he simply waits, and Stark predictably fills the quiet. "You know, your talents are wasted around here. We could use someone like you on our team."

"Hell's Kitchen needs me more," Matt says firmly. "While you and your team are off dealing with aliens, normal people around here suffer the consequences. That's where I come in. You deal with the big problems, I take care of the day-to-day stuff."

Stark hums thoughtfully. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's simply the way things are," Matt counters indifferently. "What you do and what I do is completely different. The Avengers take care of things on a large scale, and don't get me wrong, it's appreciated. I prefer not being murdered by aliens or robots or whatever you're getting into this week. But I handle the smaller things. Save individual people and communities. That's my place."

"And people like me can't see the trees for the forest," says Stark.

"I never said that."

Stark huffs and waves a lazy hand. "It was implied." There's a long silence, and Stark twists his fingers in his lap like he doesn't know how to function without something to busy his hands. "You're not wrong, really. It's not like I generally come face-to-face with the people I've saved. I see them, of course, but not personally. On the news or online interviews, things like that. Sometimes though, in the heat of the moment, I see them. The ones I save, and the ones I - the ones I don't." Stark clears his throat. "In Sokovia, there was this kid - he couldn't have been more than thirteen - and he was helping other people escape. I tried to go back for him, I saw him look at me just before, and he looked _so damn hopeful_. Like he _knew,_ in that moment, he was going to be okay. And I just - I wasn't fast enough."

Matt winces in sympathy. He recognises the emotion Stark is trying to hide, the overpowering guilt and self-loathing, because it's the same feeling that thrums through his chest all the time. He knows that there's nothing he can do to alleviate it, nothing that will soften that blade in his chest, but he's willing to offer what he can. So Matt crosses the gap and sits down on the ledge beside Stark. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well," Stark makes a flippant, dismissive noise but there's no energy behind it. "Cap keeps saying things like 'you can't save them all' and I know it's true, but it's easier for them. They're spies and soldiers; they're used to this sort of stuff. I'm just-" And then Matt can actually _feel_ Stark pulling his emotional mask back together, feel him slipping away behind his bravado and charisma. "Well, just your average genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist."

"Right, naturally," says Matt, humouring him. Inside, he feels a sudden, warm sense of camaraderie that he never would've expected. If someone had told him before that he would find a kindred spirit in Tony Stark, he would've laughed, but here they are; two ordinary men completely out of their element but doing what they can to help because they have the power to, and therefore a responsibility.

Stark twists to look at Matt, and he snorts. "I just gotta say, the costume is an upgrade from the old Dread Pirate Roberts thing you had going on, but, dude, _the horns_?"

Matt can't stop the quiet laugh that slips out. "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot."

"Do they at least serve some purpose?" asks Stark. "Got an antenna in it or something?"

"No, although they did leave a pretty good mark when I headbutted a guy in the chest last week."

Stark snorts again. "Yeah, I bet. Well I suppose I can't really begrudge a guy going for dramatic effect."

"Not when you have so much room to talk," says Matt, grinning. "I wanted to make an impression and so far it seems to be working."

"Personally I'd be more inclined to laugh at you," says Stark. "But then Steve runs around with wings on his head so I suppose it could be worse." Matt cocks his head, surprised by this news; it's not like he's ever seen Captain America, apart from old trading cards he'd seen as a kid, and he doesn't remember much about his appearance apart from the stars and stripes motif. He's going to have to ask Foggy about that in the morning.

Whatever else Stark was going to say next is suddenly cut off by a phone buzzing loudly. Stark pulls out the phone to check it and then curses under his breath. "I gotta run, didn't realise it had gotten so late," he says, shoving the phone back in his pocket. "If I'm not home when Pep gets home, I am going to be so grounded." Matt can't stop himself from snorting at that. "You laugh, but you haven't met the woman. She's scary when she's pissed. Even Thor won't tangle with her, and he fights bloodthirsty ice giants. _F_ _or fun_."

"She must be a force of nature to put up with you," Matt replies with a smirk.

To his surprise, Stark laughs. "You've got no idea. Well, I hate to cut our date short but remember, you're always welcome to drop by the Tower. FRIDAY will let you in, no questions asked. And if you get yourself into trouble and need a hand-"

"Clint already covered that," says Matt, shaking his burner phone pointedly.

Stark makes an affronted noise and grabs the phone from Matt's hand. "What the hell is _this_? A Nokia flip-phone, really? You do know phones have upgraded a lot in the last decade, right?"

"I like it," Matt counters. "It's sturdy."

"Yeah, and if you drop your clubs it could work as an extra weapon," Stark says drolly. "But that's about all the good it is anymore. Can't be easy to use this ancient thing in an emergency. I mean you have heard of voice commands, right? They're a real time saver." He shakes his head and passes the phone back before standing. "I'll get you something better. I've got a few phone designs that can take a real beating and they're a lot more advanced than that paperweight."

"There's nothing wrong with my phone," says Matt, but he might as well have talked to the wall for all the good it did. Stark is still muttering about 'dinosaur technology' and 'useless waste of wires' as he settles back into his suit, making his voice shift from normal to the metallic-filtered one.

"I'll get you that tech later," Iron Man says and then Matt takes a scrambled step back as the propulsion jets ignite and send the older man skyward at a dizzying speed.

"Show off," Matt grumbles, shaking his head, and turns to go get some real work done.


	5. With a Capital B

Matt is not stupid. Contrary to popular ( _read: Foggy's_ ) opinion, Matt does know what his body can and cannot handle. He's been trained to be incredibly self-aware like that. He knows precisely how many hours he can go without sleep before it starts to dim his response times, and exactly how much of a nap he needs to recover before he's functional again. He can tell the difference between a gash he can clean himself and one where he needs to call Claire or Foggy to stitch it for him. He knows how to readjust his fighting style to favour an injured joint until it can handle the strain again. He's not stupid and he knows where to draw the line to keep himself alive.

Which is how he knows that his current situation has strayed into bad with a capital B.

It all starts out typically enough for him. He's been tracking down a newly organised crime group that has been trying to fill the vacuum left by Fisk's arrest; this time it's an arms trade providing weaponry to the local gangs and drug dealers. It's taken him about a week of interrogation to get the names and location of the men at the top of the hierarchy. Perhaps he should've waited another day and gotten a bit of rest before going after them, but he's thrumming on the adrenaline of finally solving the puzzle, so he goes straight for them even though he hasn't slept more than a handful of hours in the last four days.

They're holed up in an abandoned industrial building near the docks, which is cliche enough to be boring, and he takes out a sentry before settling in on a catwalk to get a feel for the place. Nothing out of the ordinary; long wooden tables groaning under the weight of their wares, a few bored guards hovering near the doorways, a cluster of men smelling of hair gel and menthol cigarettes having a heated discussion over a stack of papers.

Later, Matt will blame the perfection of the stereotypical scene for causing him to get cocky.

He's taken out two of the guards before the others in the room even realise that he's there. One of the men panics and tries to run for it, and a thrown billy club to the back of the head takes him down. The others are scrambling for some sense of order and Matt is moving through them almost too easily. His blood is singing, the devil inside him roaring with triumph, by the time he reaches the pair of guys in the centre.

Both of them are scared, Matt's head is almost reeling with the hormones and sweat coming off their skin, and it's all too simple to drop the one with a well-placed elbow to the jaw. He grabs the other by the collar and shoves him back against the table so that his spine is bent uncomfortably. "Ah, man, please, no," the thug stammers frantically when Matt levers his fist back for a blow.

"Get out of my city," Matt snarls dangerously.

"I can't, man, my boss-" The thug is clawing at the hand on his shirt, trying to pry his way loose, but he can't get any purchase on the slick material of Matt's glove.

"Your boss," says Matt, forcefully hiding his confusion. He had never heard anything about there being someone higher up, had thought that these idiots were the top of the chain. "Who do you work for?"

"I dunno, man, I didn't get a name." Matt's arm snaps forward, and the man yowls through his broken nose. " _Qué chingados_! I mean it! I dunno a name, just got my orders. Comes over a phone, you know. Texts, tell me what to bring and where to drop it. Don't get nothing more than that. I swear it, man, I don't-"

The sharp crack of gunfire startles Matt more than anything, and in the time it takes for him to flinch, the gun's gone off four more times. Matt snaps back to attention and dispatches the guy in front of him with an uppercut that sends him somersaulting backwards over the table in a mess of merchandise. Matt flips out of the way of another bullet, targets his attacker - one of the guards he'd dispatched early on must've come around again - and throws one of the semi-automatics at him. The man reels as the butt of the gun hits him in the shoulder, and before he can recover, Matt has him in a choke-hold. Fingers pry, but Matt doesn't let go until he hears the man's heartbeat slip into the slowed crawl of unconsciousness again.

Dropping the guard, Matt does a quick sweep of the building to check that no one else has gotten up. All of the heartbeats are quiet and steady, and the only concerning thing is the strong scent of copper and iron swelling over the ambient smells. It takes Matt a second longer to realise that he is the source of the smell, and with that sudden clarity, the pain rolls through his defences like a battering ram. Fire wells in his torso and he staggers, gritting his teeth as he attempts to reign in his body again.

 _Mind controls the body_ , the grizzled voice that always hovers in the back of his brain reminds him, weary and patronising. _C'mon Matty, mind controls the body, you know this. So, get your shit together and get back to work._

Matt swallows hard, forces the pain behind the barriers of his mind, and straightens up. He can't rightly drag all of these criminals to the precinct, so he pulls out his burner and dials the three digits from muscle memory. A tired-sounding dispatcher answers and Matt rattles off the (approximate) address of the warehouse before hanging up. The police will be here soon enough - they're all more than used to these anonymous tip-offs to know to take them seriously. Content he's done his job for the night, Matt clambers out onto the roof and takes off.

It's seven blocks before he starts to stumble, and two more before he has to stop because the world is tilting dangerously and he nearly falls off the roof. Clinging to a rooftop clothesline for balance, he lets his senses turn inward and tracks the pain in his torso. Three burning tunnels, two clean through his body and one lodged part way, metal clicking against a fractured rib. No scent of acids or toxins, so it doesn't sound like any organs have been punctured luckily. Blood has seeped down between his suit and skin, tacky and thick like hot glue. He can't get an exact measurement on the amount other than that it is too much to be healthy. The last time he'd lost this much blood he wound up passing out at his best friend's feet, and the way his head is spinning hints that he might be heading for a repeat.

Ergo, bad with a capital B.

Matt pulls out his burner phone - pointedly ignoring the fact that his hands are slick with blood - and goes through the motions of dialling the first number in his directory. Claire. She'll probably just tell him to go to the hospital, but she's more likely to be helpful than Foggy. The phone rings four times, and Matt is sagging hard against the metal pole before it picks up.

"Barton."

"Barton?" Matt echoes in confusion. No, that's not right. The phone book is alphabetical, and Clint would've come second, after Claire. It only occurs to Matt now that Clint might've put himself in by his last name instead -  _of course he did, he's a government agent, he goes by his surname more than his given -_  and he curses inwardly for being so stupid.

"Wait, Daredevil?" Barton asks in surprise. "Wow, I kind of wasn't actually expecting you to call, honestly. What's up?" Matt's white-knuckle grip on the pole slips, and he crumples to his knees in the gravel, biting off a groan as it jars the tunnels of fire in his side. "Shit, not a social call, I take it?"

"I think I might be in trouble," Matt admits because he can feel the fuzziness creeping in, dampening his senses, and he knows intuitively that he's running out of time before he loses consciousness. Knows that this isn't something that Claire or Foggy can fix for him. Not this time. "Shot. Three times, at least."

Barton lets out a quiet stream of curses under his breath. "I'm on a jet back from DC, but I can send someone to get you," he says. "Where are you?"

Matt has to force himself to focus, retracing his steps through his mental map to figure out exactly where he's ended up. It takes a lot longer than it should, and when he sluggishly drags himself out to reality again, he hears Barton anxiously saying his name over and over. "Fifty-second and - uh." Matt falters, uncertain. "About twelfth, I think. Yeah, I can smell that Korean barbeque place."

"Yeah, I know where that is," Barton confirms. "Alright, I'm gonna call up to the Tower, have someone come get you. Just, try to stay awake, yeah?"

Matt can't summon up anything more articulate than a grunt that he hopes sounds affirmative, then sticks the phone back into its slot in his uniform. The rational part of his brain is telling him that he needs to get down, off the roof. Whoever comes for him might not be able to get him down if he passes out. Matt straightens up, arm curled protectively across his stomach, and staggers to the edge of the building.

It's difficult to tell, because his senses are wavering in and out like an old radio, but he is about eighty-five percent confident that there's an open dumpster directly beneath him. He can smell overpowering Korean spices and rotting food well enough, so it's probably not closed. Matt drops one of his clubs, and it lands with a soft _thwump_. Closing his eyes, Matt sends up a quick prayer that he doesn't crack his skull on anything and then tilts over the edge. There's a brief moment of startling weightlessness as he falls, instinctively levelling himself out, and then his body strikes against a damp mass of rubbish.

The resulting wave of pain that bowls through him is so strong that a scream catches in his throat and he barely manages to fight off unconsciousness. He hastily retreats into his mind, focusing on meditating to occupy himself so that everything else slips into the background. It's an all-consuming task, boxing up his senses and the pain and compartmentalising them behind walls. He isn't entirely successful, and he can feel his consciousness clinging on by a thread as fragile as spider's silk, but it keeps him going until he can hear voices at the head of the alley.

"You said he's by Nguyen's?" A woman's voice, very vaguely accented - something Slavic, but Matt's hearing is a little fuzzy and he can't pinpoint the origin exactly. "Clint, I don't - Well I _know_ that."

Matt tries to draw in a breath to call out to her but the pain it sends through his torso forces the air back out on a weak moan. He hears the woman's footsteps - feather-light, way _way_ too light to be normal - falter before changing directions and coming closer. "Wait, I think I-" The orange-red blur of body heat hovers above him, coupled with an almost frighteningly slow heartbeat. Or maybe it just seems slow compared to his own shock-induced tachycardia. "Got him. En route." Then, directed at him, "Daredevil, I presume. My name's Natasha. Clint sent me to find you. Can you move?"

Not trusting himself to speak, Matt grasps the edge of the dumpster with his free hand and heaves. His body is shaking with the effort, and the woman hastily slips her arms around his shoulders to help. She is surprisingly strong for someone so small and silent, and together they manage to get Matt over the edge of the dumpster. His legs buckle when they hit the pavement, and it's only her grip that stops him from going face-first into the asphalt.

It's all becoming too much. Matt has lost all control over his senses and they are going haywire, attacking him in waves of everything all at once, alternated with long seconds of muffled nothing. The world on fire has become an intense, oppressive inferno trying to devour him whole. Distantly he can hear a voice, trying to call him back, but it isn't enough of a tether to draw himself back in. There's nothing but fire and pain and the taste of blood, and then everything spirals away until there's just nothing at all.


	6. Settling Loose Ends

Waking up is always an unusual experience for Matt. When he's waking up from a natural sleep, his senses accommodate coming to slowly so that he isn't overwhelmed. They piece together bit by bit, in a steadily expanding circle. It gives him time to pull up his defences and prepare himself as consciousness slowly creeps back in.

When he's waking up from passing out, it's exactly the opposite. Awareness doesn't come back to him all at once but his senses do, and the sudden overload is staggering. Sounds, smells, and textures that he isn't awake enough to comprehend all assault his brain and send him into panic mode.

This is what happens now and Matt frantically tries to process the sensory overload; a hard surface against his back ( _bare back - where are my clothes_ ), the smell of iron and copper and chemicals, the thump of heartbeats ( _too many heartbeats - why are there so many people_ ), all rolled up beneath a low-frequency humming he can feel in his bones. There's a painful sensation in his torso, like insects made of glass splinters are crawling around beneath his skin. He wants to move, to get away from the pain, but his muscles all feel weak and tender, and his head is spinning with sickening waves of vertigo.  

"Whoa, whoa, easy there." A low tenor voice looms over him and there's a weight pressing down on Matt's shoulders, keeping him in place despite his attempts to thrash away. "Relax, dude, it's me. It's Clint. You're safe."

 _Barton_ , a voice in the back of Matt's head offers and he feels some of his panic soften. It's only when he hears a hum of confirmation that he realises he must've said it aloud too. One hand sweeps up to touch his face and Matt lets out a breath of relief when he finds the hard surface of his mask still in place. The deep exhale sends another spasm of pain through his stomach and he hisses through his teeth. He makes to probe the wound but a hand catches his wrist. "Don't touch it," Barton warns. "That makes it worse, trust me."

"What - where?"

"You're at the Tower," Barton explains. "You took a couple slugs to the stomach. Do you remember what happened?"

Matt takes a steadying breath, searching back through the fog of pain in his head. "Weapons dealers, Puerto Rican, a new group trying to set up shop in the Kitchen," he says.

Barton snorts. "You caught one of my arrows out of the air, but these street punks got you? And not just once, but _three times_?"

Matt winces. "I got cocky." Another wave of needle-sharp pain crawls across his torso and he flinches. "What is that?"

"The Cradle," Barton says like that's an answer. "Well technically this one's The Cradle Two-Point-Oh. It's the machine that's keeping you alive. Regenerates skin and muscle cells. It doesn't exactly feel great, but it gets the job done."

"What happened to healing the old-fashioned way?" Matt asks with a smirk.

Clint huffs. "So I might've exaggerated a little. Besides, not like it doesn't still hurt the same."

"You've got that right," Matt agrees, cringing as the pain rolls through him again. He focuses on his breathing, getting his senses back under control. The symphony of heartbeats he'd been hearing when he woke up has solidified into only three separate from his own; Clint's and two others, one normal but a further distance away and one alarmingly calm and steady beside Clint. He recognises the slower one from the brief moments before he lost consciousness and scrabbles for a name. "Natasha, right? And you are - ?"

"That's Dr. Cho," Barton chips in. "She's the one in charge of the Cradle. She keeps us all on our feet. Don't worry, she can't hear anything on that side of the glass though. I told you, everything you say and do here will be confidential."

Matt nods, letting out another breath. He hadn't even sensed the glass Barton is talking about. He assumes the majority of the place is made of glass because he can't get a good sense of the room, the sounds echoing strangely across the too-smooth surfaces. Giving that up, he turns his attention to the heartbeats instead. If he can't track the location, he can at least track the people.

"You know, you are one lucky bastard," says Barton. "You almost didn't make it. And if Tash hadn't been here at the Tower when you called, you probably wouldn't have. I might've had to send Tony and then you really would've been screwed."

"I didn't even mean to call you," Matt admits with a breathless laugh. "Was trying to call my friend, she's the one who usually patches me up. I hit the wrong button."

The woman, Natasha - and it occurs to Matt now that she's probably Natasha _Romanov_ , as in the Black Widow - makes an amused noise. "Then you're even luckier than we thought," she says. "Unless your friend is a magic healer, you never would've survived."

"And guessing by this rather extensive collection of scars you've got, she's no magician," Clint intones. "I mean really, you've got more scars than me and I've been doing this a lot longer than you. Did you miss the class where they teach you how to dodge or something?"

Matt huffs a laugh, although he immediately regrets it as pain lances through his stomach again. "Yeah, I must've slept through that one."

Clint snorts inelegantly. "Clearly. This one though," he taps Matt's right side, where Matt knows the knotted scar from Nobu stands out against his flesh, "looks like it's got a wicked story behind it."

"Ninja," Matt says succinctly.

"Ah man, see, Nat? He gets _ninjas_ ," Clint moaned dramatically. "We haven't had ninjas in ages. Not since, what, Montreal?"

"Canada?" Matt asks in surprise. "Canadian ninjas?"

Clint snorts. "Politest ass-kicking I've ever gotten. I don't think I'd ever had someone apologize for having to kill me before."

"Probably because after a few minutes of listening to you talk most of them were looking forward to it," Matt points out.

Natasha laughs, a soft, genuine laugh. "I like this guy," she says, ignoring Clint's squawk of protest.

Matt is distracted from Clint's mutterings about betrayal when the low-frequency humming that has been hovering in the room suddenly stops. The sharp, needle-point stabs in his side are replaced with a dull, disjointed sensation, like a local anesthesia that hasn't quite worn off yet. His skin feels oddly numb, but beneath that, his muscles burn and ache like the worst kind of over-exertion he's ever experienced.

Eager to get home where he can meditate and recover in peace, Matt hauls himself up into a sitting position and feels the world tilt dangerously on its axis. Immediately, a heavy arm settles across his shoulders and as much as he is loathe to admit it, the feeling steadies his spinning head. "Easy there," Clint says, his voice tinged with amusement. "You lost a serious amount of blood and the Cradle doesn't fix that, so unless you were really looking forward to some face-time with the fancy tile floor, I'd give it a minute."

"You're incredibly irritating, has anyone ever told you that?" Matt grunts out between his teeth as he tries to focus on stabilizing his senses.

"That'll be the third time already today, and it's not even sun-up," Clint responds cheerfully. "Tash, I think I'm headed for a new high score."

Not bothering to respond to his comment, Natasha says, "You'll want to call in at your day job."

Matt smirks. "What makes you think I have a day job?"

"Because I know for a fact that vigilantism doesn't pay well," she says dryly. "And you're not the Tony Stark type, because no one who has the money to live elsewhere chooses to stay in Hell's Kitchen."

"I feel like I should be offended on behalf of my city," Matt says, his tone flat.

In the slightly distorted blur of red that comes from her body, Matt sees Natasha shrug. "Probably, but you're not because even you know it's true." He doesn't waste his breath arguing against her very valid point. "So unless your day job involves laying around and looking like a corpse, you should probably call in or people are going to ask questions that you don't want to answer."

Bracing himself, Matt slides down off the table and is grateful to find that his legs support him. _Mind controls the body_ , barks the gruff voice in the back of his head. It's too bad his mind is swimming too much to control even itself, let alone his body as well. "I should get going," he says. "Long way back to the Kitchen and the sun will be coming up soon."

"I'll drive you," Natasha offers. Matt instinctively makes to argue but she silences him with a firm hand on his bicep. "We're not forcing you to surrender your identity, you can give me an address further into the city and I won't follow you. But you're never going to make it from Midtown to the Kitchen before the sun comes up in your condition, and I doubt you want to be out in the public like that."

Matt is silent as he deliberates, weighing his options as he pulls the top half of his armour back on with Clint's help. Through the arm still around his shoulders, he can sense Clint tensing in preparation for a fight. As a direct contrast, Natasha hasn't reacted in the least, remaining as cool and nonchalant as always, her heart still beating far too slowly for a natural person. It isn't that she doesn't expect him to put up a fight, it's that she anticipates it and knows she will still win. He hates to admit it, but there is something daunting about her casual confidence. It's both terrifying and exhilarating.

Matt took a stats class in undergrad, and he's pretty good at calculating chances. He could take Clint at this close range, even in this room of chrome and glass where he is functionally blind. The Black Widow, however, earned her reputation as the world's most lethal assassin. No one would be stupid enough to bet on him in that fight.

"Lead the way," he says with a tip of his head.

Clint's muscles relax beside him and Matt briefly wonders how a spy can be so easy to read. As Natasha crosses the room, her boots clicking in a perfectly measured tread, Clint tightens his arm around Matt's shoulders and Matt lets him. Normally he would shrug off such obvious support, but with the strange echoes off the glass he can't see to find his own way out. At least with Clint leading him like this, Matt won't give himself away by running into a wall.

They move through several large, open-planned rooms that smell of hospital before going into a wide corridor that appears to made entirely of flat steel. No one speaks as they approach what seems to be a dead-end, but Matt can hear the whir and grind of coiled cable behind the walls and recognizes it as a lift. The three of them wait expectantly until a soft _ching_  indicates the lift's arrival. The doors glide open and -

"Really, Barton? You threw a party and didn't even think to invite me? I'm hurt."

"Stark," Natasha greets, her tone exasperated.

"No, really, it's fine," Stark says with an over-affected nonchalance. "I'm okay. But I will remember this come Christmas, you can be sure of that." Barton snorts. "Anyway, I really just wanted to catch up with Horn Head before he disappears into the night again. Got a present for you."

Matt barely gets his hand up in time to catch the object Tony tosses at him. It's slim and rectangular, but with his gloves on he can't do more than hazard a vague guess. He's spared from possibly making an idiot of himself when Tony speaks up again. "To replace that dinosaur you're using."

"You shouldn't have," Matt says, smirking. A new burner phone, then.

"Yeah, well, as the leading expert in basically every form of technology on the planet, your glorified paperweight was offensive to my soul," Tony says. "This one's top of the line and sturdy as hell. Everything's voice-activated, synced up to your vocal patterns so no one else can use it. Already got all of our numbers pre-programmed along with the direct line to the Tower, but you can add whoever else you want to it."

Barton's hand closes around Matt's wrist, twisting his hand so he can get a better look at the phone. "Tony, it doesn't have a screen."

Tony snorts. "He wouldn't need one, would he?" Matt stiffens as Clint makes a confused noise. There's a pregnant pause in which Matt is certain that Tony is about to spill his secret in front of them all, and then the older man says, "It's not like he can text in those gloves. Besides, screens crack. Good luck breaking that phone, it's solid reinforced steel alloy, same stuff I use in my suits. It can take a repulsor without leaving a scratch, tested it myself."

"Nice," Clint says appreciatively and Matt's shoulders uncoil in relief. The archer moves over to talk to Tony, leaving Matt to stand unsteadily in the middle of the hall. He tucks the new phone into an inner pocket of his uniform next to the old one; he'll have to get Claire or Foggy to help him transfer their numbers into the new phone later.

Natasha is so quiet he barely hears her approach as she steps up next to him, bringing with her the faint scent of leather, ozone, and something metallic. "Don't worry," she says, voice pitched so low he can barely hear it beneath Tony and Clint's energetic conversation. "He won't tell anyone until you give him the okay."

Matt frowns, aiming for perplexed even as he tenses. "What do you mean?"

Natasha's hand is feather-light on his forearm, the pressure barely tangible through his reinforced sleeve. "We all know how it feels to be compromised in some way," she says. Her tone is still flat and no-nonsense but there's almost a hint of something more underneath it; honesty or compassion or sympathy, he can't tell which. "All of us, even Stark. Your secrets are yours to keep, but you should know this is a safe place. We understand, perhaps better than anyone else ever will."

Matt's heart is pounding and he is having a hard time reigning his emotions back in. _Mind controls the body, boy_ , Stick's voice reminds him, sneering, but for once it's not helping. Desperate not to show his inner turmoil, Matt searches about for a change of subject and his attention lands on the conversation between Clint and Tony, which has gotten louder and sounds considerably more like an argument. "What are they fighting about?"

To his great relief, Natasha accepts the topic change without question. "Apparently," she says and the tone of fond exasperation is back, "these two _идиоты_ have had a running bet about who could make friends with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"That explains the sudden interest," Matt says, nodding thoughtfully. "I was wondering what I'd done to get on the Avengers' radar."

"Well this doesn't qualify as official Avengers business," Natasha says. "This is just what happens when we're stupid enough to leave those two without adult supervision." There's a soft pause, and then, "But what you've done in Hell's Kitchen - Not everyone might agree, but I think you've done a good thing."

"Oi, Horn Head," Stark shouts suddenly, cutting off any response Matt might've had to her comment. "Would you tell Legolas to stop being an ass and pay up?"

"Oh please," Clint says, huffing. "He called _me_. I'm the reason he's here. Which means you owe me another hundred. Stop being such a pussy and just give it up already."

Matt smirks. "Actually if you want to get technical, Natasha is the one who brought me to the Tower," he points out. "If you ask me, I think that means she is the one who gets the money." Both men immediately revolt against the idea, yelling over the top of each other as they launch their counter-arguments, but beneath it he can hear Natasha's surprised laugh.

An hour later, Matt has been dropped off six blocks from his apartment by Natasha, who is now the proud owner of both Stark and Barton's hundred dollar bills. He takes a long, circuitous route back to his apartment roof - he figures the odds are that at least one of the Avengers already knows his identity, but he's not taking any chances, just in case - and finally collapses into bed just as the sun begins to rise.

Before he can nod off, Matt reaches over and finds his smartphone where he left it on the nightstand the night before. Clicking the voice command button, he says, "Call Foggy," and then drops it on the pillow beside him as the call connects. After three rings there's a click, some shuffled noises, and then finally a sleepy, "Matty?"

"Hey Fog," Matt replies, exhaustion heavy in his own voice now that the adrenaline of the night has worn off and he's comfortably sprawled on his familiar silk sheets. "I just wanted to let you know I'm not gonna make it into the office today."

The sound of movement through the speaker and then Foggy's voice again, more alert than before. "Matt, are you okay? Is everything fine? Do I need to call Hottie McBurnerPhone?"

Matt chuckles, finally dragging his arm up to lift the phone to his ear. "No, relax, I'm fine," he says. On the other end of the line, there's a gusty exhale as Foggy lets out an anxious breath. "And you know Claire hates it when you call her that."

"Yeah, well, she never would've known if you hadn't put me on speaker," Foggy reminds him. "I'm still claiming, for the record, that it is all your fault she glares at me. I could sue you for the emotional damage it's caused me. You're lucky you can't see her angry face. It hurts. Like  _physically_ , in my  _soul_." Matt bites back another grin. "Seriously though, Matt. You're good?"

"I'm good," Matt agrees. "Really, I promise. Just had a long night. You should come by after work though, I've got a great story to tell you. You are  _never_  going to believe where I was last night..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> идиоты - "idiots" (at least according to Google Translate. If it's wrong, someone please correct me and I'll fix it. I have the hardest time working with languages that don't use a Latin-based alphabet.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Curiosity Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203238) by [Jadesfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire)




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